


only fangs and sweet beguiling

by getmean



Series: sledgefu week 2019 [3]
Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Body Horror, M/M, Pining, Trans Male Character, Witch Snafu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 13:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18778915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getmean/pseuds/getmean
Summary: Gazing at the scene in front of him, Eugene takes a moment to really dig deep and attempt to figure out whether curing his months-long bad luck was really worth it. The cottage is an odd, tall thing; narrow, Baba Yaga-style with the stilts raising it out of the steaming water of the swamp. Smoke curls from the crooked chimney pot sunk deep in the dark shingles of the roof, which is at least an indication that anybody is inside. The great round window peering out of the second storey of the spindly little cottage is dark, sightless.





	only fangs and sweet beguiling

**Author's Note:**

> written for sledgefu week's prompt, supernatural AU!

Gazing at the scene in front of him, Eugene takes a moment to really dig deep and attempt to figure out whether curing his months-long bad luck was really worth it. The cottage is a odd, tall thing; narrow, Baba Yaga-style with the stilts raising it out of the steaming water of the swamp. Smoke curls from the crooked chimney pot sunk deep in the dark shingles of the roof, which is at least an indication that anybody is inside. The great round window peering out of the second storey of the spindly little cottage is dark, sightless. Eugene has been stood stock still at the base of the steps leading to the front door for what seems like an age, going back and forth in his head on whether this is a good idea or not. The bayou feels oddly dark for it being the height of midday; humid and close and smelling strong and green. The trees beckon him closer, the lacy spills of Spanish moss just gently drifting in the still, hot air. Eugene gulps, and steels himself, taking the stone steps two at a time before his hand catches on the worn brass handle, and he’s pulling it open before he can stop himself.

A bell tinkles above his head, signalling his presence to anyone who may care to know, but Eugene pays it no mind, eyes scanning the room as he takes a nervous step inside and lets the door close softly behind him. The inside of the cottage is bigger than the outside lets on; a surprisingly high ceilinged room that seems to go back for miles. Dim, but not dingy, lit warmly by a few huge overhead gas lamps that hiss quietly in the silence. Eugene’s eyes go straight to the shadowy back of the room; a set of stairs beyond stacks and stacks of shelves that give the impression of the room being stuffed to the rafters with plants and jars and various beakers and baskets. A long dark wood counter splits the room, separating the chaos of the back room from the slightly more sedate entryway. Eugene takes a few steps forward, caught up in the smells and the sights of the cottage; brimstone and sage and heavy incense, the smoke twisting in the still air just as the bundles of dried herbs and plants are, hanging from the rafters over Eugene’s head. The air is smoky with the incense, and with the cigarette smoke that Eugene becomes aware of in increments as he approaches the counter and the sole occupant of the apothecary; a small, magnetic character sat with his elbows propped on the counter, eyes on a huge old book in front of him. As Eugene watches, he turns a page, as though no-one had entered.

“Hello.” Eugene says, trying to keep his nerves from his voice with little luck. He clears his throat, eyes flicking from the man and away again, not wanting to stare but finding his attention so oddly drawn by him. A mug of coffee steams away at his elbow; chicory, by the smell of it, and a little cauldron bubbles away on his other side. Whatever is in it Eugene can’t navigate based on smell alone, but the air above it seems to shimmer oddly. The sun is warm on the nape of Eugene’s neck, strong through the big old cottage windows, and as his eyes follow a beam of light his attention lands on a small black cat, sunning itself in the light. It blinks it’s green eyes, slow, and then glances away just as the man opposite Eugene finally looks up.

“How can I help you.” He drawls, sounding very bored as he props his cheek on his knuckles, and spears Eugene through with an unsettling gaze. Eugene almost takes a step back as it lands on him; taken aback by his sharply handsome face, by his eerie green eyes. He can’t deny the dart of instant attraction that goes through him as he takes quick stock of the man in front of him; dark skinned and curly headed, his bare arms tattooed and lithely muscular, rattling with bracelets, his fingers heavy with rings. Eugene has never spoken to a witch before, and had never believed in that captivating aura they were rumoured to have.

Until now.

“Uh.” Eugene grunts, intelligently, glancing away to lock eyes with a very suspicious jar of viscera lurking on a shelf over the witch’s shoulder. Anything to avoid his heavy lidded, pale gaze. “I think I’ve been cursed?”

Eugene turns his attention back to the man in front of him just in time to see his expression crack, brows raising to his hairline as his eyes flick to Eugene’s shoulder, then back to his face. “What makes you think that?” He asks, a slight edge of curiosity to his voice now. He leans forward over the counter, an amulet swinging forward from the open collar of the black shirt he has draped artfully over his body.

“I dunno.” Eugene mutters, a thready feeling of embarrassment unfurling inside of him under the weight of that unflinching gaze. The incense is making his heart swim, and there’s too many jars that are able to stare right back at him when he tries to settle his eyes on everything but the witch in front of him. “Loads of stuff has gone wrong in the past week, like more than should be usual.” He stops, and the witch looks at him expectantly, making a gesture for him to go. “Okay. So, like I interviewed for a job last week that went really well, but I didn’t get it. And my application for funding for my grad school project didn’t get approved, for no reason at all.” He pauses, waiting for some shocked reaction from the man, for some confirmation of his fear. When none comes, he sighs, pressing his hands to his cheeks as he blurts, “And moths keep eating holes in my clothes! They won’t stop!”

The witch blinks, the full pout of his mouth opening on an O of confusion. “Can you not sew?” He asks, finally, and Eugene gapes at him.

“That’s not the point!” He cries, and the witch’s brow furrows.

“If you could sew that’d be one less th-”

Eugene cuts him off, unable to even be afraid of the man in his frustrated desperation. “Can you just help me, please?” He asks, drawing his hands down his face as he watches the witch look him up and down, expression gradually morphing into something considering. “I can pay.” He mutters, and the witch’s face splits into a truly disquieting grin, at that. All teeth, no humour at all.

“I don’t see why not.” He says, voice thick with something Eugene chooses very carefully not to name. Instead he sags with relief, elbows to the dark wood counter as he groans.

“ _Thank_ you.” He murmurs, as the witch takes a step back, angular and light in his movements; catlike. Eugene spots bare feet behind the counter, a twisting black chest tattoo beneath the sheer shirt that he hadn’t noticed from further away, and then the witch is stepping back further and Eugene gets the hint and straightens up. “I’m Eugene.” He adds, because the witch is looking at him expectantly, rocking back on his heels as those odd, pale eyes flick over him. 

“Merriell.” He says, and doesn’t offer his hand to shake. It goes to his necklaces instead, hooking his fingers into a large, carved charm that hangs just below his collarbone. The grin is back, sharp and vaguely amused. “Come here tomorrow at dawn, and we’ll get started.”

Eugene thanks him again and again, before the bell over the door is ringing once more and he finds himself wandering back to where he had parked his car in something of a daze. He feels almost drunk, sagged behind the wheel of his truck with the engine idling, the cold air blowing from the vents somehow smelling of the shop. That thick, hazy incense, the dart of the witch’s eyes through the gloom. Eugene felt that he must have dreamed it, while at the same time the memory was so vivid and so solid in his mind that it felt hyper-real, jarringly so. He barely remembers the drive home, still drunk on the smell of sage and the dart of silver beneath sheer black fabric, on _magic_. Dinner with his flatmates is a quiet affair only broken by Eugene’s admittance of turning to a witch to break his streak of bad luck, which brings with it the usual chorus of both naysaying and hushed, over-dramatic murmurings of the usual stories that come alongside talk of magic.

“It’s stupid not to utilise it.” Eugene says, at one point, literally drunk rather than the strange, dreamy headiness he had felt earlier. Two glasses of red wine had loosened his tongue, and his visit to the witch’s apothecary had granted him status at the table. He clears his throat. “Weren’t man scared of fire? We’ve harnessed that now.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then the table erupts. 

“That just ain’t the same thing at all.” Burgie says, leaning across the table with his cigarette held aloft, his girlfriend Danielle planting a steadying hand on his chest as he threatens to topple a wine glass. “Gene, what-”

“They ain’t to be trusted.” Bill chimes in with, interrupting Burgie. His brows are furrowed, like he can’t quite believe Eugene’s words. “Genie, you can’t harness what you can’t put ya damn _hands_ on.”

“I can put my hands on a potion just as well as I can put my hand in flames.” Eugene says, crossing his arms as he leans back in his seat. Bill and Burgie are looking at him like he’s lost his mind, but it’s Danielle who pipes up, pushing her thick dark hair back from her face as she reaches for her own glass of wine.

“You ain’t scared of him?” She asks, genuine curiosity in her voice. Quiet descends on the table, all three pairs of eyes turning to fix on Eugene. In the background, the radio plays along to nothing, the host’s voice suddenly loud in the room.

Eugene thinks of Merriell’s fixed, pale gaze. The odd animal sharpness of his smile. He swallows. “No.” He lies, mind on that strange Baba Yaga cottage and the way the herbs inside and the moss outside seemed to drift in some invisible breeze. “He was very handsome, actually.” That part was not a lie; Eugene hasn’t been able to shake the dark, full pout of the man’s mouth from his mind all day. 

Bill rolls his eyes. “Oh, so it’s like that.” The corner of his mouth pulls in a smirk, and he stabs at what’s left of his meal with his fork. 

“It ain’t like anythin’.” Eugene snaps, bristling. “There ain’t nothin’ going on.”

Bill jabs his fork in Eugene’s direction. “But you want there to be.”

“No!” Eugene cries, and means it. “God, my parents would kill me. Not only a man but a _witch_?”

They laugh, and the conversation peters away from Eugene’s witch as more wine flows, as Danielle gets up to tune the radio to a different station. She manages to get Burgie up and dancing, while Eugene and Bill sit collapsed together on the couch, sleepy and giddy from the wine, teeth and lips stained purple from it.

“Go on, Burg!” Bill cries, his arm worming between the back of the sofa and Eugene’s shoulders as he throws his head back to laugh, and Eugene finds himself cracking up too. The wine in his glass sloshes over his fingers, and the room is gently tilting around him; pleasant, rocking with the sway of Burgie and Danielle to something upbeat and loud. It’s a Friday night. Eugene has a date with a witch, tomorrow. The concept is so laughable that it’s all he can do; head pillowed on Bill’s shoulder as he listens to him sing along to the radio, off-key and drunk, his hand squeezing Eugene’s shoulder on beat. 

He sleeps deeply that night; lulled down by the wine, by his stressful week and odd day. Quick to fall asleep, but sleep brings with it a series of strange, disquieting dreams. The bayou, green water rising up to meet him, tasting like mud and pond water as it floods his mouth, his nose, his eyes. The darting silver shapes of fish in his peripheral, and even dream-Eugene is surprised by his calmness at being drowned under tons of deep green swamp water. When he tries to look at the fish straight on they flash away from him, and then panic drops low in his gut and he’s thrashing, hands clawing at the clinging weeds and the thick, bulbous trunks of the cypress trees squatting low in the same water that is filling every cell of his body. He gasps on nothing, water flowing into his lungs, and then there’s the sensation of being yanked by his shoulders and Eugene is gasping on dry land, and he barely has time to catch his watery breath before a pair of tattooed, heavily ringed hands are plunging into his chest and cracking his ribcage open with a noise that echoes through the darkened swamp, and he-

Eugene comes awake all at once, breath catching in his throat as he blinks blankly at the shadowy ceiling above him. Slow, the dream still clinging to his mind, he touches his palm to his bare chest, feeling the frenzied thump of his heart below his ribcage. The room smells of incense, and as soon as Eugene presses his fingers to his sternum he’s asleep again, dropped down into dreamless blank nothingness. 

————

Eugene is hungover and nauseous when he arrives at Merriell’s cottage the following morning; the hike from where he parked his car to the cottage almost killing him from the heat and the exertion. Judging by the swift look up and down that the witch treats him to when he arrives, Eugene looks exactly as rough as he feels, but the inside of the cottage is marginally cooler than the outside so Eugene takes a moment to count his blessings as he sits stiffly at Merriell’s well-worn workbench beyond the counter.

“I’m gonna start simple.” He calls from a few feet away, pawing through a book that looks liable to break apart in his hands from how old the binding seems to be. He’s wearing a simple white tee today, and Eugene finds himself fixated on the arcane tattoos on his hands as fragments of his dreams from the night before begin to come back to him. 

“Okay.” He croaks, eyeing the lit cigarette Merriell has abandoned to the ashtray on the table. “Can I smoke?”

“No.” He answers, carelessly, wandering back with the book open in his hands. He plucks his smoke from the ashtray, a smirk firmly fixed on his face as he slides onto the bench opposite Eugene. “So first we find out if you’re actually cursed or just imagining shit.” The way he says it tells Eugene he believes heavily in the latter, and his eyes skitter away up the table as he drags a deck of cards closer to him. “First, have you noticed anything odd? Dead plants, dead animals, witches marks around your house?” He pauses, and then his eyes find Eugene’s again. “Strange dreams?” 

Eugene swallows, struck through by those huge green eyes. “My roommates forget to water my aloe in the kitchen sometimes.” He mutters, and Merriell just stares. “So, no. I guess not.”

“Okay.” The witch drops his eyes to the cards he’s very slowly and methodically shuffling, and Eugene can’t help but follow his gaze, captivated by the smooth motions of his tattooed hands. _Crack_. The sound of his ribcage splitting, echoing through the bayou. “Photos, personal items, or amulets missing? Unexplained liquids around your property? Are you in pain?” There’s an edge of something amused to the look at Merriell throws him as he glances up, like he knows he’s going too quick for Eugene but doesn’t care one bit. Eugene grimaces, wordlessly, and his mouth curls in a smile. “Just the bad luck, then.”

Eugene nods. “Just the bad luck.”

Merriell inclines his head, and then passes him the deck. “Shuffle it, put some intent in ‘em. Then pull cards until you find an ace or you draw ten, then do that two more times. Easiest way to tell if you’re cursed.”

Eugene eyes him suspiciously. “You’re pullin’ my leg.”

Merriell shrugs, taking a drag from his cigarette as he drops his gaze back to his book. “You’ll never find out if you don’t stack ‘em.”

So Eugene stacks them, and draws three aces in no time at all. It takes a moment for Merriell to notice; absorbed in his book so deeply as though he’s forgotten Eugene is there. It takes him clearing his throat for Merriell to look up, and his eyes drop to half mast as he whistles at the sight of the three aces. 

“Oh yeah.” He says, inching a hand closer to touch a finger to the Ace of Hearts. “Classic entropy curse.” His glances back to Eugene, whose sitting stock still and silent opposite him, humbled by the confirmation of what he had always held a tiny bit of hope would be just plain bad luck. “You got any enemies?”

“None.” He murmurs, through numb lips. The Aces pulse blackly through the dim lighting at him, the yellowed, dogeared cards oddly alive under the influence of the strange cottage. He shoves them away from himself, clumsily stacking the cards back up and handing them to Merriell, who takes them. “Or do I?”

He shrugs one shoulder, bracelets jangling around his skinny wrists as he shuffles the cards idly. “Not necessarily. Curses ain’t an exact science. All it takes is the wrong person thinkin’ bad thoughts about you and,” He drops the cards to the table before making a gesture with his hands, “There you have it; cursed. Now hexes-”

“How do I get rid of it?” Eugene asks, cutting him off as a fit of panic washes over him. The idea of being _cursed_ is so suddenly distasteful and out of his control that he can almost feel it; an itch, an oil slick on his skin. Merriell’s expression drops blank for a second, that permanently impish look to the angular planes of his face smoothed out, before he hitches it back on, and grins.

“’S a couple’a ways.” He mutters, rising again from his seat as he paces away between a couple of the thickly stacked shelves around them. “And they’ll cost ya. Curses are notoriously _sticky_.” His voice drops low on the word, richly amused by the prospect, it seemed. Eugene can barely process the reality of the situation, let alone the fact that the only person who can cure him of it seems to be enjoying every second of his discomfort. 

“Money ain’t the issue.” He says, and Merriell pops back into view, tattooed arms laden with jars. He sets them down on the workbench between him and Eugene, who catches a couple that begin to roll. As Merriell busies himself amongst the shelves again, Eugene turns one towards the light, trying to identify what could possibly lie inside. Nothing is labelled; the jar cloudy and worn with age, and he’s just debating whether to unstopper the jar and take a smell when Merriell wanders back into view, a mortar and pestle in hand. 

“Don’t fuck with that.” He mutters, settling back onto the bench, and Eugene sets it back on the table quickly. Merriell’s hands immediately go to the jars, sorting them and righting them as if by reflex, some unknown categorisation as he talks. “First thing I’m gonna do is make you a tea I want you to drink every night for a week, and it ain’t gonna be the thing that breaks your curse but it’ll keep it at bay and if I _do_ get rid of it, it’ll keep the bastard from comin’ back.”

“Does that happen?” Eugene asks, eyes on the witch’s hands as he takes a pinch from one jar, a handful from another; all so adept and confident that Eugene has to mentally kick himself as he begins to find it attractive. He’s always had a weakness for a capable man, but couldn’t say it wasn’t a surprise to find his weakness extended to witches too. Merriell snorts, working the pestle into the mortar with short, practised movements. The silver rings on his fingers wink dully in the low yellow light of the apothecary, and Eugene finds his gaze running from the odd rune-like tattoos covering Merriell’s hands, to those on his arms, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt, and then up and up until he’s settling curiously in Merriell’s thick, dark curls, eyes on the silver hoop piercing his earlobe. 

“That’s half the damn job.” He says, grimly, and his eyes flick up and meet Eugene’s, finding him staring. A smile curls his mouth, just as Eugene feels himself flush warmly in the cool darkness of the stone cottage. He just hopes that the light is too low to show his blush up, but judging by the amused, slightly smug look that Merriell redirects down into the mortar, it had showed it up well enough. He doesn’t say anything, much to Eugene’s great relief; and they spend the next half hour in silence before herbs and money exchange hands, and Merriell sends Eugene back on his way with a cheesecloth full of various herbs and the strict instruction to bathe in salted water at midnight, noon, or dawn. 

“Transitional times.” He’d muttered, eyes on the cloth he was knotting up. “Ten minutes minimum, then rinse it all off.”

“Wish I’d brought a notebook to write all this down.” Eugene had joked, over-jovial in that awkward, middle aged way he often lapsed into when he was nervous around handsome men. Merriell had thrown him a look which was only a few degrees from disparaging.

“It ain’t brain surgery.”

The bayou had lightened considerably in the time that Eugene had spent inside that cool, dark cottage; sunlight slanting in beams down onto the dirt track that Eugene took to get back to the outskirts, to his car, to civilisation. The cool blue dawn that he’d arrived in seemed so far away it was almost dreamlike, and even Eugene’s hangover had abated in the time he’d spent in that dim, smokey room. With a little bit of hope putting a spring in his step, he covered the ground to his truck in no time at all, cranking the radio as he drove home, tapping out the melody to the song on the steering wheel as his precious bundle of herbs bounced along on the dashboard, soaking in the weekend sun.

————

The tea made Eugene nauseous to the very pit of his stomach, and he’d made the salt water bath too strong that first midnight try at it, so he was left with a big patchy rash on his side that didn’t abate, no matter how much rinsing of the salt water he did. But he kept at the tea, no matter how much the cinquefoil in it seemed to upset his stomach, for the whole week that Merriell had recommended. Burgie was convinced he was being poisoned, and so was Bill, only he was a little more delighted about it. 

“Serves you right.” He said, watching Eugene gingerly drink a glass of water. “There’s a reason why witches and us normal people keep separate.” 

“Don’t be stupid.” Was all Eugene could muster, growing as sick and tired of his friends’ antiquated views towards witches just as he was getting sick and tired of a certain witch’s apparent _cure_. Emphasis on the sick. 

He goes back to Merriell at the end of the week, as promised, who deems him regrettably still cursed without having to look up from the tiny palm sized book he is poring over. 

“Still?” Eugene asks, dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”

The early morning sunlight is bathing the inside of the cottage in a warm, bright wash, the blue skies through the large windows beckoning Eugene out for a day in the sun. Merriell is sat in his usual seat; his tall stool on the other side of the counter, that ever present coffee and cigarette rounding out the picture. No shirt, today. Eugene chalks it up to the surprising heat of the day, and tries not to let his eyes linger on the impressively disturbing tattoo that he had spotted through that sheer black shirt only a week previous. What looks like a canine skull in full, bony, anatomical detail splashed black between his nipples.

“Didn’t I say curses were hard to shake?” He drawls, marking his place with his finger as he glances up at Eugene. The hollow of his throat is shiny with sweat, and Eugene can smell him from where he’s standing; musky and spicy and so close to the smell of the incense fogging the room that he has a hard time telling them apart. “ _Sticky._ ” He adds, turning his attention back to the page.

Eugene has been dreaming of him again. Dismembered, always. Hands, chest, arms, the back of his head, the flex of muscle in his calves. If he chalks it up to the curse it makes him feel a little less batshit, but only just. Ever since he had locked eyes with the witch Eugene has been finding himself getting torn apart in his dreams in increasingly vicious and increasingly erotic ways. He’s not sure which is concerning him the most, which may actually be the most concerning part when he thinks on it.

He comes away from that morning’s get together with another cocktail of herbs and a poultice for his salt bath-induced rash, his head stuffed full of cotton in that way he’s come to associate with Merriell’s odd little cottage. Burgie helps him apply the poultice that night, daubing it on thickly over his ribcage and onto his back, and what Eugene can see of his face in the bathroom mirror is pinched, nervous.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, arm beginning to ache from holding it over his head. The new mix of herbs for the tea seems more successful than the last; he’s not nauseous, yet. It’s bitter, slightly reminiscent of aniseed, and is making him drowsy. That cotton wool sensation has not yet abated. 

Burgie peers at him, thick brows pulled down low over his earnest blue eyes. “I’m not happy about this.” He mutters, gesturing with his poultice-stained fingers. “Not happy ‘bout any of it.”

Eugene rolls his eyes, finally lowering his arm gingerly as Burgie takes a step away from him. Their bathroom is small, far too narrow to fit two grown men inside but here they were anyway. Crammed in with the smell of the slightly pungent poultice and the weight of Burgie’s frown. “Well it’s a good thing it’s me doin’ it and not you, Burg.”

His eyes flick away, expression conflicted as he stares down at the tile floor between his feet. “I just wanted you to know.” He settles on, rubbing at the nape of his neck as he glances at Eugene again. “I ain’t Bill, but I don’t think he’s wrong to be wary. Witches are witches, Gene, and you don’t even know this one. There’s a reason why they normally only trade with their own kind.”

Eugene tips his chin up, defiant despite his brain fog. “I’m gettin’ to know him.”

“Yeah?” Burgie asks, eyes roving over Eugene’s face as he waits for him to nod. His brows raise, and then he’s sighing and turning for the door, grudging surrender in every line of his face. “Fine. ’S your funeral.”

He leaves Eugene standing there dumbly, poultice cooling on his skin, eyes heavy with the drowsiness the tea has brought about, struck dumb. “You don’t mean that!” He calls after him, ignoring Bill’s answering intelligible shout through the wall. 

Burgie doesn’t answer, and sleep claims Eugene practically as soon as he crawls into bed. Down, down, that thick, taffy-like spill into a true dreamless sleep like Eugene hasn’t seen in weeks. No odd, half-arousing, half-disturbing dreams to have him waking conflicted and tired, ill-rested despite sleeping so hard and for so long. If morning finds him groggy and rising later than usual, Eugene chalks it up to adjusting to the new tea, and if morning finds his favourite sweater eaten through by moths, he takes it as that ever so important transitional period, and resolves to buy a sewing needle as soon as possible.

—————

Weeks go by, running into each other with the kind of seamless stickiness that Eugene always associates with high summer. Full of hot nights vying with hotter days, the screaming of cicadas and the pervasive smell of honeysuckle, hot tarmac, the kind of humidity that clings in every strand of hair on one’s body. Merriell is bare chested more often than he’s not, during these formless, mashed up weeks, and that howling tattoo of his becomes less off-putting day by day as Eugene becomes used to it, becomes used to _him_. 

They spend more time together than Eugene had ever thought they would on that strange morning he had lingered outside of Merriell’s cottage, steeling himself to set foot over the threshold. In silence, for the most part; Merriell with his nose either in a book or all his attention focused on a potion, cigarette clamped between his fingers as he chain-smokes and drinks cup after cup of chicory coffee. Eugene splits his time between university work and watching Merriell; always a task done covertly and from beneath his lashes, the silence of the shop settled like a thick blanket as the little cauldron bubbles away, and Merriell’s cat lounges in the beams of sunlight that fall through the big, old windows. 

If Merriell catches him staring, he never says a word. After a little while, he begins to let Eugene sneak cigarettes from his pack, and with that Eugene considers the witch to be fully, _finally_ warmed up to him. Even if he may have odd ways of showing it. 

As June melts away into July, Eugene’s bad luck persists. He begins to spend more time in Merriell’s cottage than ever before; outside of shop hours, mornings, evenings, long hot afternoons spent crosslegged on the uncomfortable wood floor as Merriell casts spells around him. More teas, more potions, and such a complete lack of any kind of urgency from Merriell that Eugene assumes it must be this hard to shake a curse. _Sticky_ , he remembers, that low drawl, the smell of Merriell’s sweat. 

He’s finding himself falling under Merriell’s spell more and more as days go by; becoming increasingly wrapped up the longer they spend together. Merriell proves to be just as enigmatic and attractive even as Eugene learns more about him; little tidbits of information that the witch tosses his way like breadcrumbs leading up to the frustratingly hard to piece together bigger picture. It seems like the more Eugene learns about him, the further his understanding of the man drops away. Seventh son of a seventh son, destined towards magic even if it hadn’t run so strongly down his maternal line as it did. His mother, grandmother, all the way back to the first woman who had set foot in this country, all the magic of her ancestors resonating down the bloodline. 

“So does it make you like,” Eugene pauses, searching for the right word. Merriell watches him with a look in his eye that seems to be daring Eugene to misstep. “Like, an even stronger witch?”

Merriell snorts, as though he hadn’t been expecting that. “I ain’t a true seventh son.” He mutters, a smile pulling at his mouth as he gestures for Eugene to lift his arm. Eugene does so, shivering at the first contact of the cool, bitter-smelling paste to his warm skin. Merriell takes a step back, eyes flicking over Eugene as he smiles to himself. “I’m somethin’ of a self made man.” His tone is amused, lightly mocking, though of what Eugene can’t tell.

He goes back to daubing runes on Eugene’s skin in that acrid paste, silence falling between them as he works. Eugene likes it like this. The quiet cottage, the warm sun on his back and the heady smells of the apothecary that are becoming steadily more familiar and comforting to him as the weeks go by. These meetings with Merriell are becoming something he looks forward to: a brief little oasis of calm in his otherwise hectic week. University deadlines are drawing nearer and nearer, so close that Eugene is becoming increasingly fixated on shifting this stubborn curse before his exams descend. His funding for his PhD hasn’t been approved yet, and with every passing day the pit of nerves in Eugene’s stomach grows. 

Merriell’s finger makes a long stroke up the middle of Eugene’s back, right along his spine, and the shiver it elicits draws Eugene pretty spectacularly from his worrying. He doesn’t miss the soft sound of amusement from Merriell at his reaction, his finger sweeping complicated shapes over his shoulder blades, over the back of Eugene’s ribcage. 

“Ticklish?” He murmurs, voice dripping with teasing delight as Eugene senses him move away. He knows that he’s flushing pink down his chest, but can’t do anything to stop his embarrassment.

“Just surprised me.” Eugene mutters, turning his head to follow Merriell’s path as he steps in a slow circle around him. Catlike, stalking. Eugene feels like a rabbit in the pale headlights of Merriell’s eyes. His smile is toothy, sharp. The tattoo leers from between his dark nipples, almost seeming to shift in the dim cottage. 

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” He asks, casual, fingers dipping back into the mortar he’s holding. Eugene watches him approach with something like trepidation fluttering in his throat, some vague, deep down animal instinct to flee shuddering through him.

 _You_ , Eugene thinks, but says out loud, “University.” He shifts, tipping his head back as Merriell presses his thumb to his sternum, cold from the paste in the mortar. Baring his throat. The part of him that is all small, frightened little mammal shivers, every muscle tensed as Merriell meets Eugene’s eyes and very deliberately draws his thumb from sternum to adam’s apple in one smooth, slow stroke. “What did you mean by self made man?” He asks, knowing that Merriell can feel the buzz of his words in his throat.

The question makes Merriell break away; sends him and his paste back to the anchor of the work bench. Eugene watches the play of muscles in Merriell’s back as he leans over it, hands braced against the wood as he flicks a page in the book that he’d dragged out that morning. “Let’s just say tattoos ain’t the beginning or the end to the tweaks I’ve made to myself.” There’s a trace of humour in his voice, something dry and sardonic that leaves Eugene feeling distinctly like he’s missing out on some inside joke.

That feeling is not a new one for Eugene, who feels as though he’s spent the last few weeks of his summer in various states of confusion. Merriell seems to be as stubborn as he is frustrating; a man of few words, and even those words always seem to be just a step to the left of what he really means to say. It’s left Eugene feeling as though he’s lagging behind each step, missing the crumbs of information that Merriell is feeding his way because he’s so focused on the crumb he’d missed a day ago to take notice of the new one. The topic is dropped in favour of Merriell serving a customer, leaving Eugene half nude and daubed over with the rapidly drying paste as he and the customer chat back and forth about herbalism versus crystal healing.

“’S’all in the ground.” Eugene hears Merriell say, and he tries not to feel stung by the easy manner he always seems to adopt with other witches. Eugene hadn’t realised what an odd thing it was, to visit a witch’s shop as a mortal, but the fact was steadily dawning on him with every sidelong glance thrown his way since he’d began this whole thing. He tries not to pay it much mind; Merriell and him have a curious amount in common, and that’s enough for him to gather that his presence is not entirely unwelcome. 

Their appreciation of nature is most often the topic that splits the silence and gets Merriell talking. _Really_ talking, his eyes lit up with something alive and interested as his hands make paths through the air as he speaks. Eugene spends a long afternoon spent sat around Merriell’s cauldron telling him about his thesis, about his plans for a university conservation group and his still-pending funding for his graduate project on the impact of their declining wetlands on the bird population. Merriell listens, rapt, eyes and hands busy on his potion making but head tilted Eugene’s way as he nods along to Eugene’s words. When he does glance up, there’s something shining in his eyes that makes Eugene feel oddly _seen_ , like Merriell has just peeled back a layer of his skin and peeked inside. His nimble, broad hands make short work pulling apart the small, feathery leaves from a stem of yarrow, eyes burning a hole in Eugene’s forehead. 

“”S happening here, too.” He mutters, hands stalling in their task. Eugene quirks his eyebrows at him, not wanting to upset the tenuous balance that conversation with Merriell always seems to hang in. His eyes are big in his face, staring intently at Eugene as he nods, fast. “Ain’t ever heard less birdsong than in the last couple’a years. Even the plants ain’t growin’ the same.”

Eugene’s heart squeezes in his chest, a completely inappropriate reaction to the news of the bayou’s decline but a reaction he has to endure nonetheless. Merriell’s curls are tipped with gold by the light of the window behind him, casting him oddly angelic for a witch with a snarling fanged mouth on his chest and a pentagram inked blackly into the skin of his forearm. Eugene is struck dumb by the visual, too slow to reply with his chest and throat all full up with the helpless attraction he’s been feeling more and more for Merriell as time goes by. The moment to respond passes but he croaks out something anyway, spurred on by the look in Merriell’s eyes and the sweet curl of his big hands around the tiny white flowers. “I’d love to see.”

There’s a beat, in which Eugene watches Merriell’s eyes narrow, something very thoughtful and appraising passing over his face. His hands pick back up in their task of separating leaf from stem, and Eugene goes as limp as a puppet with its strings cut when he turns his eyes down. “Come with me then,” He murmurs, like it’s nothing, like he invites Eugene around for things not related to his damn curse every day. “I go foraging every morning at dawn.” He shrugs one bony, tattooed shoulder, the strap of his too-big singlet slipping to his bicep. “’S long as you don’t get in the way, I don’t mind.”

“Sure.” Eugene says, aiming for casual, unaffected, but not quite hitting it. Merriell’s eyes flick up, throwing Eugene a deeply amused glance up through his lashes, and then the corner of his mouth tugs and Eugene watches him bite back on a laugh; the jump of a muscle in his cheek. 

They fall back into comfortable silence, and Eugene finds he couldn’t wipe the smile from his face if he tried.

—————

It’s a testament to how eager Eugene is to spend time with Merriell outside of being poked and prodded and dosed with strange potions and tinctures that he wakes in time for their blue dawn forage. It’s so early that the roads are quiet driving out of town; just Eugene and the radio turned down real low, the rumble of asphalt under the tires. The morning is rising up from the horizon, that violet sky lightening from the bottom upwards, rising out of the long stretch of road that leads Eugene into the bayou in shades of pink and pale purple. He’s so tired and spaced out that his driving is automatic; brain someplace far away even as his body bounces along the eventual dirt track where he parks, and hops out.

He had dreamed again, last night. After a few nights free from dreaming, Eugene had been cautiously optimistic that it was over, at least for the time being. No more odd, semi-lucid dreams that always left him more confused than the last. Merriell’s hands in his chest, in his mouth, in his guts. Erotic and distasteful, arousing and stomach churning all at once. The sensation of his broad, rough hewn hands splitting skin and muscle and bone, so warm and solid wrapped around the pulse of Eugene’s viscera that he could feel the ghost of the touch for hours after waking. And he hasn’t told a soul. Not Burgie, certainly not Bill, and the thought of even hinting towards his dreaming to Merriell is enough to have him flushing with embarrassment even as he walks. 

The bayou takes on an odd quality at dawn. Eugene supposes it’s why Merriell prefers to get things done during these watery, blue hours before the world wakes up. Eugene keeps his eyes fixed on the weaving path, the world becoming more lush, more green, as he sinks deeper into Merriell’s world. Silent, save the rustling of the trees and the sounds of animals hidden just out of sight; the distant croak of a lone frog soon swelling to a chorus of noise as Eugene emerges from the undergrowth into the small clearing where Merriell’s cottage sits on the banks of the bayou, those spindly little chicken legs raising it up from the black water. 

He’s sat on the stone steps leading up the front door, and Eugene approaches slowly, waiting for Merriell to notice his presence. He’s sat with his back hunched, fiddling with what reveals itself to be a cigarette between his knees as Eugene comes closer, eyes flicking curiously over the scene in front of him. It’s rare he ever sees Merriell out from behind the counter of the apothecary, and even rarer he sees him in anything but a state of very indeliberate disarray. Semi-kempt; his curls a snarl, bare chested and barefoot. This morning he’s dressed for the cool dawn hour that Eugene is so enjoying; a light shirt thrown over that overlarge singlet of his that seems to be a favourite, lately. And _boots_ , honest to God boots on his feet.

“Hey.” He mutters, eyes still on the cigarette he’s rolling himself, greeting Eugene as he comes to a halt just at the base of the steps. The cottage looms spindly and tall over their heads, that odd all-seeing eye of a window peering down at them. Eugene thinks he can spot the cat up there, and her attention sends a shiver down his spine just as Merriell’s does as he turns his gaze up, tongue darting out to wet the paper on his smoke before finishing it with a twist of his fingers. “Ready?”

He stands, and the motion pulls his singlet to the side, the hem caught up in the loose waist of his worn blue denims. The tattoo leers at Eugene, newly revealed to the grey dawn light, it’s teeth just hooking over the collar of the singlet as though-

Eugene’s dream from the previous night comes back to him just as abruptly as it had left him. His hand sinking seamlessly into the maw of Merriell’s hypnotising tattoo, his flesh parting around Eugene’s hand like water as it swallowed him whole. Merriell’s ringed, tattooed fingers coming up to curl around Eugene’s wrist, but instead of tugging him away and out from inside him, he had beckoned him in, eyes dancing with impish delight. The sensory memory is too vivid; the vital pulse of Merriell’s chest all around him, the sheer heady intimacy as he had shifted his hand and Merriell had grinned, leaning in so close that Eugene could see himself reflected back in the glassy green of his eyes, and he had —

“Gene?”

Eugene starts, dragged forcibly from his memories of the previous night as he reorients himself, eyes darting back to Merriell who is watching him with a frown. “What?” He stutters, taking a step back as his eyes dart once more to the low neckline of that maddening singlet. The tattoo seems almost mocking, it’s empty eye sockets peering right through him. A breeze shifts the trees overhead, creating ripples on the surface of the water and bringing with it the smell of wet, loamy soil, the sulphur smell of the swamp.

“Are you ready?” Merriell asked, slow, sounding out each word. His brow is still furrowed as he puffs on his rollup to keep it lit, and when Eugene nods he gestures ahead of himself. “Alright, we’re back. Go on.”

The dream is hard to shake for the first few hundred yards they walk together, shoulder to shoulder as they traverse the little paths and sunken trails that Merriell seems to know so well. Some routes are no more than beaten brown dirt paths winding through along the banks of the swamp. Marshy, boggy ground begins to take over, and then they’re tramping along in sucking precarious mud for a stretch, before Merriell leads them both onto higher ground.

“The best stuff is down by the water.” He explains, drawing up short along the bank. The soil crumbles away easily under his boot as he edges closer, dropping to one knee to ease a chunk of violet flowered greenery from the precarious slope into the water. “Like this phlox; cures all sorts of gut problems. The leaves are good for eczema, and the roots treat a VD as well as anythin’ a doctor could give you.” His smile curls sardonic as he tips Eugene a secretive wink, amused by his raised brows. “You’d be surprised.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t.” Eugene mutters, watching as Merriell pulls it from the boggy ground with a practised ease. It joins the other things he’s gathered in the pouch hanging from his belt, and then they set off again, stumbling along the side of the bayou in search of more resources. They share a comfortable silence as the stroll along together; Eugene taking in the views while Merriell keeps his eyes firmly fixed to the ground. The swamp by the light of dawn is an entirely different creature to what Eugene had imagined. That watery egg yolk of a weak morning sun rising above the thickly packed trees, bouncing off the dark water to reflect up into ripples on the cypress knees rising from it. Everything still dew-wet and green, still fresh in the face of the heat that’s already beginning to set in for the day. Eugene is sweating by the time they turn to head back to the cottage, the sun inching higher and higher in the great expanse of blue sky that he can spot through the trees. Merriell is too; his shirt tied around his waist, skin slick and brown under the heat and humidity of a new day. 

“You’re burnin’.” He mutters, at one point, eyes near preternatural through the gloom as they work their way through a particularly densely wooded patch of trees, cutting off the light of the sun. He touches the back of his hand to Eugene’s bare arm, and then up and up until his knuckles are brushing Eugene’s nape. “I’ll fetch some aloe when we get in.”

“Okay.” Eugene croaks, sure he’s flushed even redder after that tiny, casual touch. His skin prickles with it, long after Merriell has pulled away and pulled ahead; walking a few paces in front with his forage bag swinging and his curls getting gently tossed by the breeze. Eugene can’t help but watch him, captivated by the incredible ease by which he’d touched Eugene so intimately, captivated by the dip of his small waist, the sweet, downy nape of his neck and the slip of the strap of his singlet over his shoulder.

He rustles up aloe and coffee when they return back to the cottage, leaving Eugene to gingerly dab at his forming sunburn as he disappears up the steps to the very back of the room, presumably leading up to where he lives. That ominous eye of a window. 

The aloe is instantly soothing, and Eugene sits back with a badly rolled cigarette as he waits for Merriell to return, picking idly through the things that they had gathered on their walk. He recognises very little of it, and his mind turns to contemplations of Merriell’s apparent innate knack for herbalism as he fidgets with the plants on the table in front of him.

“Don’t fuck with ‘em.” Comes Merriell’s voice, and when Eugene turns he must catch him off guard; eyes oddly fond in his face as he approaches slowly, two big mugs of coffee in his hands. Seeing Eugene’s hands creep nervously back to the plants in front of him, he grins. “What did I say?”

“Sorry.” Eugene mutters, taking the mug that is offered to him before Merriell slides into a seat on the bench opposite. “Just curious. Ain’t never really tied magic into this kinda stuff.” He flaps his hand at the still-damp plants in front of him, at the jars upon jars of herbs and various bits and pieces lining the shelves around them.

Merriell eyes him thoughtfully. “Magic’s about more than wavin’ your hands around, shootin’ bolts out your fingers or whatever mortals think is goin’ on.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He says, inclining his head as he sets his mug aside and reaches for his pouch of tobacco. “Magic needs somethin’ to focus through. Like a channel. My ancestors have been usin’ herbalism for centuries before they came over to this country, and I’m proud to keep that alive.” He shrugs, brings the cigarette he had rolled while talking up to his mouth to wet the paper. “Some people use crystals, weather, water. Mirrors. It don’t mean we can’t use anythin’ else, but it’s like you choosin’ to take the path down studyin’ birds over other things.” He snaps his fingers, and smirks as Eugene’s brows inch upwards as the gesture lights his cigarette. “See?”

“So the herbs stuff _is_ magic?” Eugene asks, watching raptly as Merriell blows several showy smoke rings towards the ceiling. His following grin is all the answer Eugene needs, and he ducks his head, feeling silly and ignorant all of a sudden. “Okay, maybe that’s a stupid question.”

Merriell snorts, cigarette dangling from his lips now as his hands made quick, practised work of separating the foraged items in front of him. “Better to ask a stupid question than never ask and just assume even stupider shit out of ignorance.” His eyes are fond on Eugene as he glances up, as though gauging his reaction. “Right?”

“Right.” Eugene echoes, shifting in his seat so he can ash his cigarette in the dish by Merriell’s arm. “Yeah,” He murmurs, slowly, “You’re right.”

Merriell’s teeth sink into his plush bottom lip, expression just bordering on playfully teasing. “Yes I am.” He says, eyes flicking over Eugene quickly before dropping back to the task at hand. “Now shut up, I’m busy.”

It’s around this time that Merriell stops charging Eugene for the time they spend together. It’s been a long time coming; prices dropping lower and lower as they’ve grown friendlier, and Eugene tries not to make a mountain of a molehill, but can’t help the pleased flutter it sends through him. He tells Burgie, just to rub it in his face, and earns an eye roll for this efforts that doesn’t even put a dent in the joy he’s feeling, or at least not right away.

“But are you even gettin’ rid of your so called ‘curse’?” Burgie asks, hanging air quotes around the words as if the disapproval dripping from his tone wasn’t enough. Eugene opens his mouth. Shuts it. Burgie’s eyes take a short trip back into his skull. “Don’t get taken for a ride, Gene.”

 _I’m not,_ is what Eugene wants to say, but can’t quite string the words together to send them out through his vocal cords. As much as he’s enjoyed his summer spent by Merriell’s side, growing closer to him and developing an understanding of witches beyond what he’d been brought up to believe, he’s not so stupid to be completely unable to see where Burgie is coming from. With the end of August rapidly approaching, he has been waiting on tenterhooks for news of his PhD, his funding, _anything_ that could mean his streak of terrible luck has been lifted. Or even just slightly abated; Eugene was definitely not above bargaining at this point. 

Burgie’s expression becomes stonier the longer the silence between them stretches. Eventually, Eugene just mutters, “I’ve got it under control.” Eyes on the ground like if he looked at Burgie he’d spill every misgiving he has. But he’d made this bed, and Eugene was gonna lie in it if it killed him; rather that than having to deal with Burgie and Bill acting smug about being right for the next sixty years Eugene has left on this planet.

———

It takes a couple days of stewing in his brain for Eugene to work up to the conclusion that everyone else around him had seemed to have made weeks ago. Even Danielle, tousled and half asleep at the breakfast table a few mornings ago, had asked Eugene if he’d found a better witch yet. He hadn’t replied because it felt too much like a betrayal to even acknowledge that everything that Merriell had been doing isn’t _working_ , but that comment had compounded all the rest of the comments, all his own unsure and negative thoughts, and sent him out in the direction of the swamp one balmy midday where his only task otherwise was to sit by the mailbox and _wait_ for good news. 

He cranks the radio as he drives, trying to banish any second thoughts from crowding into his mind. _It’s time, it’s time_ , he thinks to himself, eyes squinted against the bright sun bouncing off the hood of his truck. He’s sweating in the warm cab, the A/C having broken weeks ago, another thing with Eugene had chalked up to his cursed bad luck that he’d hoped would be turning itself around in no time at all. It makes his shirt stick to his back, makes him feel overheated and prickly and claustrophobic until he cracks the passenger side window and the cab suddenly fills with cool air, the smell of burning hot tarmac and the distant sulphur-green smell of the swamp.

He supposes the biggest fear is acknowledging that his and Merriell’s relationship has spun so completely out of the realms of the distant, professional one they had started out with. To acknowledge that is to confront the dreams head on, to confront his blatant attraction for Merriell, for Merriell’s increasing warmness towards Eugene. It means hanging a lampshade on the hours spent in each other’s company as nothing more than Eugene wanting to be close to him, which then leads of course into the realm of _dishonesty_ , of creepy obsession at its worst and just plain weirdness at it’s mildest. Eugene has always considered himself a quiet master of mental gymnastics, and this particular route his thoughts are taking is nothing but a jumping off point for the places his penchant for introspection can take him. 

Simply, Eugene doesn’t want Merriell to take his hints that he may need a second opinion badly. And to confront the machinations behind that particular line of thought is where lies ruin for him. The thought of the rest of his year drawing out long and far away from the bayou is painful; Eugene has never even seen where Merriell sleeps, eats, spends time alone.

Before long Eugene finds himself parking, and then making that tough little hike through the trees into the clearing where Merriell’s cottage rises from the water like some kind of odd, stone beast. He’s sweating properly by the time he arrives, sagging on the warm stone steps outside for a minute to catch his breath, to try and cool himself down a little. The humidity of the bayou compared to the town is always shocking; Eugene slaps at a mosquito on his bare calf a hair too late, grimacing at the smear of bright red blood it leaves behind. Damn swamps. The Spanish moss drifts lazily overhead, and Eugene sits and listens to the croaking of bull frogs for a minute before he gathers himself, and takes that all important first step into the cool interior of the cottage. It feels so much like his first time visiting that Eugene can’t help but compare; Merriell’s eyes flicking up at the jingle of the bell over the door, and the instant warm familiarity in them is miles away from the cool disinterest of his first visit.

There’s a customer there who Merriell is already busy with, the counter between them strewn with various bagged up herbs and powders. Eugene hangs back, fiddling with the display of books that Merriell has at the front of the store. He flicks through two short books on poetry and another on the use of poultices before the woman leaves, giving him an odd look as he raises his eyes from the book he’s not really reading. He forces a smile, and her eyes slide past him without a change in her expression, the bell over the door tinkling overhead as she leaves.

A beat of silence. Eugene’s heart is in his throat, and it only squeezes up higher when Merriell props his elbows on the counter and grins at him. “Hey.” He says, bracelets sliding down his forearm with the motion. “This is a surprise.”

Eugene laughs, nervously, approaching the counter on rubbery legs. He doesn’t know where the sudden attack of nerves has come from, but he’s so gripped up in it that he can barely force himself to greet Merriell, who’s frowning at him now, lip caught between his teeth.

“You okay?” He asks, and his concern stands out to Eugene more than anything else. How had he deluded himself on the nature of their relationship for so long? Would what Eugene is about to say change that?

“I’m fine.” Eugene mumbles, bracing himself with his palms to the counter’s edge as he steels himself to speak. It’s easier to focus on his hands than Merriell’s curious, confused expression, so he does; keeps his gaze zeroed in on his hands, his bitten-down nails and fingers tipped red from worrying the skin around them. “I have something to ask you?” It comes out a question, and for a moment Eugene hopes that Merriell will dismiss it, will give him the out he so sorely needs.

He doesn’t. “Go on.” Voice cautious, dragging his words out as though he isn’t sure he wants Eugene to speak at all. Eugene grinds his thumbnail into the side of his index finger.

“I’m still cursed.” He says; a statement, not a question this time. He’s getting everything all mixed up. When he glances up at Merriell to gauge his reaction, he looks taken aback, brow creased in confusion. Oddly caught out, too, very still and stiff all of a sudden. 

“That ain’t a qu-”

Eugene talks over him, his nerves rattling the words out before he can stop himself. “I just think I might need a second opinion.”

The words drop leaden into the silence between them. Eugene sucks a lungful of breath in, holding it tightly as he watches Merriell’s expression cycle; shock and then anger, a moment of darting regret, all coalescing into rigid irritation, plain as day. The sharp line of his jaw is set, muscle jumping in his cheek as his eyes flick from window to floor to counter, and then finally to Eugene. “A second opinion.” He repeats, dully. His hands are balled fists by his sides. Eugene nods, eyes downcast in a mixture of embarrassment and pure self-pity. “You think I don’t know my shit?” Merriell adds, at Eugene’s admission. Something icy cold and defensive runs like a whip crack in his voice. 

It takes everything Eugene has not to beg him to understand. “No!” He says, as emphatically as he can. “No, never. I just don’t know if I need a different approach or-”

“You don’t need a different approach.” Merriell snaps, cutting Eugene off. His chest heaves, that tattoo covered up under a t-shirt, and then he says, “I can tell you that, Gene.”

“What makes you so sure?” Eugene asks, and his words come out sharper than he intended; goaded into anger by Merriell’s completely unreasonable reaction. 

“Because you never had a goddamn curse in the first place.” Merriell snarls, and Eugene doesn’t have time to even process that statement before he’s speaking again, a heated barrage of words that are each hitting Eugene harder than the last. “I just wanted to fuck with a mortal for all the shit I’ve had to put up with you lot my whole life.” His face is an ugly, twisted mask; equal parts annoyance and smug vindictiveness that only serve to deepen the trench his words are carving out in Eugene’s chest. He grins, that same sharp smile from the first day they had met. “Still want a second opinion?”

Eugene is speechless. So completely taken aback that he’s silent; mind blank as his brain works overtime to process this sudden flood of new, unpleasant information. Then it all clicks together at once, a row of switches flipping in his brain as his eyes rove over Merriell’s face, searching for the amusement he almost wishes he could see there. Easier to come back from a badly played joke than an elaborate lie that had lost him money and precious time, had convinced him he was _cursed_ — destined for bad luck — made him ingest teas and tinctures, and the worst part is that all that isn’t what’s making him so angry. It’s the afternoons they had spent together in easy, cosy companionship. Laughing at Merriell’s odd, crass jokes, talking about his life, his family, his hopes for the future. Dreaming of him night after night, harbouring such a tiny burning flame of attraction and affection for so long that he began to see the same warmth and fondness in Merriell too. _That_ is what hurts the most. The sheer embarrassment to find that he’d been played for so many months was the final spark he needed. Eugene is a match, and now he is burning.

“You lied to me.” He says, voice flat and cold as his anger turns hard and brittle in his chest. “Over some imagined chip in your shoulder.” Merriell is watching him intently, face so expressionless and distant that the embarrassment flares brighter even than Eugene’s anger. This final moment of making a fool of himself. 

“It ain’t imagined.” He snaps, that odd, calm mask cracking. He draws himself up straighter, crossing his arms over his chest as he stares Eugene down across that dark divide of countertop between them. Eugene is near glad for it; he’s not sure just how high Merriell’s temper can flare, and wouldn’t like to find out. “After all this, I’d thought you’d at least know that.”

“After all this, I’d think you’d know that I ain’t like that!” Eugene cries, so beyond frustrated with this circle they seem to be pacing. Merriell’s face drops, another glimpse into the real emotion he’s so badly covering up, and Eugene is so shocked to see hurt under it that he forgets to feel anger for a second. “Didn’t you realise?” He adds, quieter, hands twisting together anxiously as he goes back to his nervous picking of his cuticles. Merriell’s expression wavers, and then his gaze flits away, eyes caught on the light streaming through the big windows, lighting him up in shades of gold and green.

“How was I supposed to know?” He asks, still that steely, annoyed edge to his voice, despite the torn look in his eyes as he turns his attention back to Eugene, who is stewing still and silent across from him. “I know that now.” He adds, voice softer, but something about it does absolutely nothing to soothe Eugene’s temper. 

“Great.” He bites out, the hurt and the anger roiling together in his chest. It turns him sarcastic, bitter, taking a shaky step backwards toward the door as he tacks on, “Well, better late than never.”

He leaves, his head a mess of anger and disappointment and _embarrassment_ , as he storms back through to where he had parked his car with nothing in his mind but the urge to flee. He slams the car door behind him and takes a moment to breathe once he’s inside the quiet, warm interior of the car, eyes on the gearstick as he zones out. The embarrassment is the worst part; a dreadful pit opening up in his chest that’s compelling him to just _hide_ , to just crawl into bed and wait for the shame to abate. He had really thought that something was beginning to develop between them, and this sudden shocking reveal of the lie is devastating. Eugene sits for what feels like an age in the car, the interior growing hotter and hotter around him as he sits with his head in his hands. Eventually, the heat proves to be too much and he turns the key in the ignition; breaking the silence, breaking his disconnected, contemplative mindset. 

The drive home is slow, distracted; twice Eugene runs a stop sign, too wrapped up in this reveal of Merriell’s sudden and apparent hate for mortals to notice or even really care. Thinking on it only swells the pit of shame bigger in Eugene’s chest, but his mind keeps returning to it as a hand returns to a bruise. Poking, prodding, helpless to relive that pain over and over. To think he’d gotten himself so mixed up in some ploy for revenge. To think he had been so easily convinced, so easily played and manipulated. It leaves a very bad taste in Eugene’s mouth; something horrible on top of a worse summer, and the feeling sends him straight to his room, right past the openly curious faces of his roommates. He keeps his head ducked and his face turned away, and it’s only when he closes the bedroom door behind him and lets himself sink to the floor does he finally allow himself to feel the betrayal, the anger pricking tears in his eyes as he sits with his fingers digging half moons into his forehead, Merriell’s cold admittance ringing in his ears.

————

July finally winds down into August, bringing with it so much university prep that it keeps Eugene distracted, for a time. He splits his days between work and school, evenings in with Burgie, Bill, Danielle, and nights spent sleepless in the humid heat that he always hates so much. His days are so packed that it’s easy to not turn inward, to not linger on the events of a few short weeks ago, but the nights stretch long and dark and there’s nothing to keep Eugene’s mind from turning to that old, near-exhausted topic. 

Burgie and Bill never asked about it. It’s probably the one tactful thing Bill has ever done in his whole life, and Eugene is beyond grateful for it. He knows how obvious it must be that he got played for a fool, and the last thing he needs is for it get rubbed in. So he goes about his days, wearing a path into the ground with the sheer monotony of it, and tries his very hardest to not think about Merriell, which is a task far more easily said than done. 

Everything seems to remind him of the witch. It’s inevitable, the turn of his thoughts towards that man, just as it’s impossible to keep his mind from his feelings of betrayal. The two are so wrapped up in him that he can’t linger on one without the other, and then distance and time work together to soften the blow of Merriell’s lies and Eugene finds himself starting at university in the fall with such a sense of yearning for the man that he almost misses the days where all he felt was shame and anger. Time becomes a slipstream as the leaves turn orange and then drop, and Eugene begins to miss that strange, narrow cottage tucked away on the banks of the bayou so badly it feels like a physical weight on his chest. It’s reminiscent of that dread black pit that had opened up under the press of his embarrassment, and the next few weeks are spent conflicted as he spreads himself thin between class and work and social life, and ruminating heavily on what had happened that balmy morning back in July. 

He doesn’t dream of Merriell anymore. Eugene isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or whether he misses those strange, feverish dreams. He lies awake at night and tries his best to recall them, the sensation of his hand sinking through the smooth tattooed skin of Merriell’s chest, of Merriell clawing deep and painless into his guts with something close to affection blooming in his green eyes. What comes through are only shallow ghosts of the memories that used to leave him pink faced around company, and sweaty and shamefully hard in the privacy of his own bed, and so Eugene cuts the exercise loose and tries to throw himself into university just to distance himself from the fact that he’s forgetting.

Around this time, two things happen in very short succession. The first is that Eugene gets his long awaited and long fretted over response from the university about his funding, to which he receives the news that it’s been accepted and can all go through. The news puts him on cloud nine, all the anxieties and the bad moods that his remembering and subsequent realisation of his forgetting have brought about, fade into the background. Burgie and Bill take him out drinking in celebration, and Eugene remembers little besides swinging Danielle around on the dance floor in some dark, sporadically lit club with the taste of gin in his mouth and a kind of happiness in his chest that he hadn’t even realised had been missing for so long.

He wakes the next morning with a hangover and Bill laid warm and snoring next to him, and the second thing makes itself known as soon as he levers himself out of bed and into the bathroom to chase the taste of cigarettes and booze from his mouth. His toothbrush ventures into the back of his mouth, and then he’s ripping it out with a muffled noise as even the barest touch of one of his molars has pain tearing through him. Bill’s head pops around the bathroom door a minute later, eyes bloodshot and face puffy with sleep.

“What.” He mutters, like Eugene had called him. His eyes flick around the room. “You good?”

Eugene realises what a sight he must make; stood frozen in the bathroom with the light turned off, toothbrush aloft and pain clear as day on his face. “Dunno.” He mutters, as though speaking might make the pain that is now aching and radiating through his jaw flare up again. “Toothache.”

“’S the cigs.” Bill mumbles, turning away from the doorframe with a yawn. “You’ll feel better.”

Days go by and the toothache worsens; spreading from just the tooth whenever Eugene upset it, to an ache tunnelling right through his jaw, to earache, headache, until he finds himself relegated to liquids and painkillers only. Nothing seems able to ease the intense, throbbing pain, and after the third night in a row of restless tossing and turning because he’s far too uncomfortable to sleep, Eugene skips a day of class and takes himself to the dentist, his jaw stiff and swollen as he sits in the waiting room trying to ignore the ache while he flicks through an outdated gossip mag.

It hurts to even open his jaw wide enough for the dentist to take a look inside when the time comes, Eugene laid up flat on his back with his palms sweating against the denim of his jeans. He’s never enjoyed dentist offices; always a source of pain than anything else. 

“Yup.” The dentist mumbles, eyes intent over his mask as he taps around Eugene’s mouth with those medieval looking instruments. “That’s an abscess alright.”

His tools withdraw, and Eugene blinks away the spots the fluorescents above him have made in his retinas as the chair rights itself. “What?”

The dentist doesn’t even respond; mistaking Eugene’s genuine confusion for shock. He just nods, tugging his mask away from his mouth to shoot Eugene a closed mouth grimace of a smile. “Yup.” He says, again, and Eugene wonders just how much more emotional whiplash this week has in store for him as he’s handed a cup of pink liquid, and instructed to spit.

A lot more, as it turns out, after the bill is presented to him and Eugene has to schedule his much needed root canal for a month where he may have the money to pay for it. He drives home with something complex and decidedly melancholy stirring in his chest, stopping off for a milkshake in the drive-thru by the house because it’s all he can comfort eat and he’s tired of soup. The news of his bid for funding being accepted was such a high that the news that he needs a hyper expensive _root canal_ not a week later hits as a very particular low. It doesn’t help that the first place his mind had turned while lying in that stiff dentist’s chair was to Merriell and all his herbs and medicines and the tricks up his sleeves, because that was nothing but a case of wishful thinking.

But once the thought pops into his brain, it roots there; growing bigger and bigger and harder to ignore just as Eugene’s tooth continues to get more painful with each passing day. It makes him snappish and moody, a complete nightmare to be around, but his pining and his pain must amount to something satisfying enough for the universe to take pity on him, as a number of sleepless nights later Eugene wakes to find a handwritten letter slipped through the mailbox. It’s so sudden it feels half conjured. He stares at it blankly for a moment, frozen peas clutched to his cheek as part of his morning routine before the painkillers kick in, eyes tracing the very familiar slant of the handwritten address on the front as though he could be hallucinating it. He _has_ been pretty dosed up for a good month, by this point. But the paper feels real, and the heft of the envelope tells him there’s something besides paper inside, so he paces through to the kitchen with it in hand as he works through what to do with it. 

“Wha’ssat?” Bill mumbles, mouth full of cereal as his eyes track Eugene’s meandering path to the kitchen sink, which he leans up against, eyes still tacked to the letter in his hand.

“Letter.” He says, uselessly, and doesn’t have to glance up to know that Bill is rolling his eyes.

“Thanks,” He replies, chewing noisily. “Wouldn’t’ve guessed that.”

“Shut up.” Eugene says, companionably, and abandons the letter to the countertop as he makes himself a cup of coffee, bag of peas held precarious between shoulder and jaw. Burgie joins them for breakfast, Danielle in tow, and asks after the letter too, to which he receives the same answer as Bill. For some reason, Eugene doesn’t feel quite ready to let them in on it yet; he wants to open it in private, at least to give himself the space to react with no eyes on him. He doesn’t have to open it to know it’s from Merriell. He spent too many afternoons watching him label those huge apothecary jars to not recognise his handwriting, and so Eugene is afraid for what the envelope could contain. It gnaws a curious, anticipatory little hole into his brain for the best part of the morning as he gets wrapped up in some classwork, but he manages to grab a moment to himself just before lunch in which he shuts himself away in the bathroom with the letter and-

It takes him a while to open it; perched uncomfortably on the side of the tub with just the first tendrils of pain beginning to leech back into his jaw. He’s not sure why, but when he does bring himself to tear the envelope his heart is squeezed up firmly in his throat, thudding away as he eases the note free, and something drops from his envelope into his lap as he upends it. His eyes follow it, a smile pulling at his mouth even as he tries his very hardest to bite back on it.

A good luck charm and a bad apology. Merriell’s earnest, awkward scrawl so oddly charming that Eugene finds himself pretty tickled by the gesture, even though he tries his hardest not to be. A strung dime for good luck, and a letter that addresses him as _Genie_ , and then _Gene_ , the previous moniker scribbled out in an embarrassed flurry of ink. Merriell is not a necessarily verbose person, and definitely not the sort to often take the time to visit a damn post office, so Eugene lets the goodwill gesture settle in him, something pink and pleased blooming in his chest. The strung dime finds its home on the top of his dresser, and the letter gets tucked away in his nightstand in some lame attempt to forget about it, as if that could ever be possible. 

A week passes, and Eugene dreams of Merriell’s burning green eyes every night without fail, routine like clockwork. It becomes both a thing to look forward to and a thing to dread, so much so that Eugene finds himself sitting at the kitchen table across from Danielle and Burgie one afternoon and cannot hold back on spewing out all that had had happened since July in one long cathartic run-on sentence. 

When he’s done, they stare blankly at him for a second, and then as one they open their mouths and speak.

“I don’t wanna hear about your sex life —”

“That’s so romantic —”

They stop, and stare at each other; twin expressions of confusion. Eugene sits back in his seat, half-regretting giving in to the urge to get it all out. He’d thought it might make him feel better, but so far it feels like a big mistake.

Danielle speaks first. “You think it’s romantic?” Her dark brows are pulled down in confusion, and Burgie’s face is distinctly pink as he clears his throat and goes back to his late breakfast, avoiding her eye.

“It has a certain somethin’.” He mutters, embarrassed. Eugene and Danielle make eye contact over his head, and she shrugs. 

“Well if he ain’t castin’ spells on you I s’pose it’s pretty romantic.” She says, slow, eyes creeping back to Burgie, who is staring resolutely into his plate of eggs. Her attention returns to Eugene, then, and she adds, “I always heard that if you’ve caught a witch’s eye, lotsa odd things can happen.” She shrugs. “Could explain the dreams.”  
Eugene frowns. “What, like he’s makin’ them happen?”

“No, no,” She flaps her hand, shaking her head. “It’s involuntary. Just like, a side effect of you bein’ on their mind.”

Eugene blinks, taken aback by this brand new information. “Really?”

She shrugs, picking up her fork again as she goes back to her own breakfast. “Sure. Maybe you weren’t played as bad as you thought, huh?”

Her words resonate in Eugene’s mind for days, stuffed in there alongside Merriell’s sweet, awful apology, and the hundreds of memories of their time together packed on top of the other. Eugene has always considered himself the type of person who takes the time to mull over a decision; not the impulsive type, more the type who would sit and sift through and unpack all those memories. Holding each one up to the light to test it, methodical and deliberate and, yet. 

The toothache gets worse, and along with it as does his missing Merriell. Like a physical thing, until he convinces himself that the pain is some manifestation of his stupid, lovesick pining, and he does something incredibly out of character. 

One morning, in a fit of goodwill, he dons the good luck charm, pockets the letter, and he heads for the bayou. For that twisting little smokestack of a cottage, towards the maddening slip of a witch who has been haunting his every moment for months. The road slips by under him as he barrels towards the swamp, mind oddly blank and clear for the first time in a long while. His tooth is aching so badly it’s radiating up into his ear again, throbbing with every pulse of his overexcited heart. 

The cottage is closed up and dark when he arrives, taking the stone steps to the front door two at a time until he’s pressing his face to the window panes, eyes squinted to try and see anything in the darkness of the ground floor. He takes a step back, and then another, craning his head until the great big eye of a window is peering down at him, lit from within by a soft orange glow. Smoke curls from the chimney above, and Eugene feels a surge of something unnamable and excited in his chest as he goes to the door again and begins knocking on it, knocking and knocking until his knuckles hurt, until he spots movement in the darkness. A moment later Merriell’s familiar, handsome face appears, his features distorted and wavy in the old glass of the front door, and Eugene’s heart seizes in his chest at the sight of him. He didn’t know how badly he had been missing the witch until this moment; the two of them face to face with only the door separating them. Merriell’s shock is plain as day on his face, even through the distorted old glass, and then there’s the sound of locks flipping and that same shock is turning to genuine delight as he throws the door open and there’s no barrier between them any longer.

“Gene.” He says, voice a little rough around the edges, soaked through with pleasant surprise. His green eyes are huge in his face, flicking over Eugene as though making some mental catalogue of him. “It’s been a while.” He looks smaller then Eugene remembers, dressed in a pair of grey sweats and a roomy sweater, his curls wild on one side as though he’s only just gotten out of bed. Covered from neck to wrist, Eugene can almost take him for someone he would barely glance at in the street, if it wasn’t for the angular planes of his face, that odd feline look to him topped off by those pale eyes. 

For some reason, he yearns to see the tattoo again. 

“I forgot how to get here.” He answers, too slow, and Merriell’s face is splitting in a smile the longer the linger awkwardly in the doorway; not familiar enough for an embrace, not with how they left things, but not distant enough to settle for a conversation on the doorstep. “Can I come in?” Eugene asks, feeling oddly bold as the words leave his mouth. He doesn’t miss the quick dart of Merriell’s eyes to his mouth, to the hollow of his throat and then lower, where the dime hangs against his chest. 

“Are you gonna yell?” He asks, a smirk already pulling at the corner of his mouth as his eyes inch back up to Eugene’s face. He can’t help mirroring him, unable to bite back on his own smile.

“No promises.”

Merriell steps back, and Eugene follows, one foot at a time until he’s stood alone in the middle of the floor, taking in the familiar smells of the shop as Merriell closes the door behind him. The room is dim, the gas lamps above their heads extinguished, and the only light lending itself to the place comes from the huge windows set high in the walls; watery, early morning light, the sky outside cloudy and grey. Merriell moves like a wraith through the half-lit room, slipping past Eugene to flip up the side of the countertop and settle himself beyond it. Eugene grins, approaching the counter.

“Hey.” He says, and Merriell taps his fingers on the counter, a staccato little beat as something amused passes over his face. The smell of incense is as heady as it always has been, pleasant and thick and spicy, mingling seamlessly with the pervasive smells of Merriell’s herbs. Eugene can feel his head swimming under the influence of it, from that and the way Merriell’s gaze has settled on him, warm and familiar and just edging towards playful.

“What can I do you for?” He asks, mischief curling his mouth. His hand inches forward, silver rings winking dully in the low light. 

“What were you dosing me up with?” Eugene asks, voice low to match the weak daylight picking Merriell’s features out in a collage of smudges. That sweet, soft wedge of a nose, the pleasing, generous fullness of his plush top lip. Eugene wants to press his thumb to it, and the thought is so mad that he almost laughs.

Merriell’s lips curl in a caught-out, teasing little smirk. “It was mostly just tea.” He mutters. “Nothin’ magical. Then potions and spells for luck, after —” He shrugs, and taps his fingers against the countertop again. “Well.” 

Eugene runs through his options as he drops his eyes to Merriell’s hand, mind oddly, blissfully clear for the first time in months. He could storm out and never come back, could relight the argument that had flared between them back in July just for the hell of it, just to attain some sort of closure that he half knew didn’t lie in breaking things off. Closure doesn’t always mean walking away, after all. Or he could relent; forgive, forget. See this whole situation for what it is: some badly thought through ploy by Merriell to get his own back as the opportunity had arose, a ploy gone completely awry in such a spectacular way that the only way for the truth to have come out was through argument. 

Merriell is gazing at Eugene, waiting silently as though he can read the thoughts spinning through Eugene’s mind, threading them from his forehead like a ticker tape machine. The weight of his attention settles him, turns him towards a conclusion as easily as he had duped him in the first place. “I have a toothache.” Eugene murmurs, and Merriell’s face splits in a smile. “Can you help me?”

“I think I can dig out something.” Merriell murmurs, inclining his head. “Hold up.”

He melts back into the shadows of the back of the shop, cast deep and dark by the tall, silent figures of the shelves. The place is transformed in darkness; Merriell’s own dim little maze, so Eugene hangs back behind the counter and listens out for his footsteps, mind turning over his decision as he waits. 

“I can hear you thinkin’ from over here.” Merriell calls, voice drifting disembodied from amongst the shelves. Eugene hears the drag of something heavy being pulled from a wooden shelf, and then the clank of a glass lid. 

“Then stop listenin’.” He shoots back, a smile on his face even though Merriell can’t see it. “Haven’t ruled out whether you can read my mind or not.”

“Now that’s a skill I wish I possessed.” Merriell replies, coming back into sight with a large glass jar cradled in his arms. The contents shift as he sets it down, and Eugene peers into the old, age-clouded glass with trepidation. Merriell kisses his teeth, shooing him away. “’S nothin’ scary, c’mon. This is just for the chaser, later.” He drops Eugene a wink, and then ducks below the counter to draw a small, dark bottle from under it. “ _Spilanthes Oleracea_ tincture.” He announces, pressing the bottle into Eugene’s hand. He stares at it blankly, rolling the little glass vial between his fingers.

“What’s it do?”

Merriell rocks back on his heels, scooping the jar back up as he grins at Eugene. “Pretty broad toothache cure, with a little twist of my own.” He shifts his grip on the big glass jar, expression dropping suddenly very earnest. “You wanna head upstairs for coffee?” He hefts the jar. “This shit takes a while to brew.”

Eugene hesitates, but the judging by the look in Merriell’s eyes it’s for more than coffee; they’re soft, near pleading, and Eugene nods before he can second guess himself. After all, isn’t this what he had come for? The chance to make up? 

Merriell flips the locks on the front door again, and then leads Eugene through the darkened shop, past the counter, past the rows upon rows of packed shelves; eerily still, silent shapes in the dim room. Then to the narrow little staircase to the back of the room, and Eugene’s heart performs a strange leap in his chest as Merriell leads him up it. Excitement, that he’s finally going to see where Merriell lives. Anticipation, for the same reason. His tincture is gripped tight in his sweaty palm, his tooth throbbing throbbing throbbing in his jaw, a spiderweb of pain across his whole face.

The top floor of the cottage is small, cosier than the large room downstairs; untidy and hodge podge with its mismatched furniture and soft furnishings. It’s almost intimidating, just how much _stuff_ Merriell has managed to find places for in such a little room. The floor creaks under Eugene’s feet as he takes a step forward, old wood floorboards scuffed and marked with wear. A little kitchen runs along one wall, a couple long legged stools pushed flush to the island that bisects the room; separating kitchen from living area. Eugene glances around, catching a narrow hallway branching off and half hidden by an expansive, tangling plant hanging from a hook in the ceiling.

“Take a seat.” Merriell says, picking surefooted through the muddle of rugs that make up the floor of the room. He sets the jar down on the scrubbed wood counter, nudging a plate into the big, ceramic sink as he drags closer the small cauldron that’s taking up most of the space. He glances up then, catching Eugene lingering awkwardly still at the top of the staircase, eyes flitting around the room as he finds himself drawn by all the odd, disparate items drawn together in one place. “Gene.” He says, and Eugene tears his gaze from the glassy eyes of a stuffed black bat posed as though ready to swoop from Merriell’s huge, overflowing bookcase.

“Huh?”

Merriell’s eyes soften. “C’mon, sit.”

Eugene sits, perching on a loveseat pushed under that circular window that looks so much less ominous from the inside. It floods the room with light; warm and bright, surprisingly airy despite being crammed to the gills with things. The sofa swallows him whole; so comfortable that he lets himself relax back into it, eyes growing heavy from the warm room and the comforting smell of Merriell’s chicory coffee, that same incense as downstairs. 

It’s obvious he’s interrupting Merriell’s morning. There’s music playing on the old fashioned turntable tucked next to that truly impressive bookcase, something in a foreign language that Eugene can’t quite catch, but it’s mellow and low, a fitting backdrop to the sounds of Merriell clattering about in the kitchen, the low bubble of the cauldron as it heats up. His breakfast seems abandoned on the coffee table; oatmeal, half-drunk coffee, a pat of butter growing soft in the warm room. Eugene nudges it aside so he can peer at the stack of books there; Occult Philosophy bumping shoulders with a dogeared, well read almanac, a slim book with a spine so weathered Eugene can’t make out the title, Culpeper’s _Complete Herbal_ , all topped off with an overflowing ashtray in the shape of a clamshell. Eugene sits back, turns his ear to the music again as his eyes wander over the room.

“What’s this?” He asks, gesturing towards the turntable when Merriell glances up, lip caught between his teeth in concentration.

“Ibrahim Ferrer.” He says, and adds, “My daddy was a white Cuban,” by way of explanation. 

“The seventh son?” Eugene asks, crossing his leg over his knee as he settles back further into the plush sofa cushions. Snafu’s eyes crinkle.

“The very same.”

Eugene snorts, eyes turning back to the tincture clutched in his hand as he waits for Merriell to finish up. His jaw is aching still, but it’s somehow more of a manageable pain in the peaceful atmosphere of Merriell’s chaotic little home. Packrat or magpie, Eugene can’t quite determine, but the place is half indoor jungle half hastily picked over estate sale, and he loves it. He’s never been one to feel at home in another person’s space, but there’s something about this warm, brightly lit little room that’s lulling him close to that. 

Merriell joins him a minute later, clearing his half-finished breakfast to the sink before bringing fresh new cups of coffee. The ‘chaser’ he had mentioned downstairs follows; served up to Eugene in a New Orleans souvenir shot glass emblazoned with a tiny little voodoo doll. Merriell shrugs at the look Eugene throws him.

“Thought it was funny.”

Magpie, then. Eugene watches as Merriell squeezes a few drops of the tincture into the straw coloured liquid in the shot glass, and then he’s handing it to Eugene, who knocks it back in one foul swallow before he can psych himself out. He grimaces at the taste, face twisting at the odd burning bitterness of it, and he coughs as Merriell laughs, tipping his head back against the back of the loveseat.

“You’re tryna _kill_ me.” Eugene chokes, setting the shot glass down onto the coffee table with perhaps a little more force than necessary. Merriell is wiping tears from his eyes, laughing still, and Eugene is suddenly struck by how young and boyish he looks without all his tattoos on show. His jewellery abandoned to a little dish Eugene can spot on the coffee table, looking comfortable and near-normal in the clothes he obviously sleeps in. This close, Eugene can smell him; warm skin and the barest hint of sweat, cigarettes, something musky and earthy that he wants to take as a perfume but knows is probably all _Merriell_. In his hair, in his skin, his clothes. He catches Eugene staring, hands dropping from wiping tears from his eyes to curl under his chin, eyes still crinkled in amusement.

“I’d have done it by now.” He says, something teasing and dark in his tone, and Eugene doesn’t doubt for a second that he’s telling the truth. They’re squashed together so close on the sofa that Merriell’s toes are touching the outside of Eugene’s thigh; his knees drawn up to his chest. He’d see a flicker of a lie across Merriell’s face if there was one, but it remains cool, blank. Only the playful look in his eyes gives him away. 

“Well try not to.” Eugene deadpans, and Merriell snorts, finally glancing away as he leans forward to pick up his coffee from the table.

“No promises.” He mutters, parroting Eugene’s earlier words with a sly curl to his mouth. 

That bitter little drink is beginning to take effect already; the pain lessening slightly under its influence. Eugene touches his hand to his jaw, the other cradling his wonky little mug of coffee to his chest. Merriell is watching him, and Eugene can tell that he’s gearing up to something: the silence between them feels heavy, loaded. A quick change from the easy joking between them of just a minute ago. It’s there in the sudden serious set of Merriell’s mouth, the way his dark brows pull down over his eyes. 

“Shoot.” Eugene says, bringing his coffee to his mouth and marvelling at how the first burning sip doesn’t flare the pain in his tooth. Merriell leans back, expression turning thoughtful as he sets his mug aside. “Go on.”

The frame of the loveseat creaks as Merriell shifts, hands bunching in the bottom of his oversized sweater, immediately settling into tugging at a stray thread at the bottom of it. “I want to apologise.” He says, simply, and Eugene draws his eyes from the nervous movements of Merriell’s hands to meet his gaze. His eyes are serious, none of that borderline teasing playfulness there now. Eugene lets himself get pinned by them; stuck fast to the faded red sofa cover by the lance of his eyes alone. “I misjudged you but then I kept doin’ you wrong even after I learned my mistake.” He shrugs, hand coming up to draw through the thick curls at the crown of his head, eyes turning down to settle on the point of contact between them; his bare feet tucked under the curve of Eugene’s thigh. “After that it felt impossible to tell you I was lyin’, because I knew you’d be done with me, and I didn’t want you to be.”

Eugene gives his words the pause they need; lets them roll around in his head for a few long moments in which he gathers his thoughts. He’d be wrong if he ignored the fact that it was almost _understandable_ ; Merriell’s feelings towards probably the very first mortal who had stumbled through the doors of his shop. The history between his kind and Merriell’s was chequered to say the least, and so he supposes he can’t harbour much resentment for the knee jerk reaction. The fact that he’d given into it though — that was a different thing entirely. “I can see how you’d be wary.” He says, finally, and Merriell raises his brows, eyes on his coffee as he circles the rim of his mug with his thumb.

“That’s one word for it.” He replies, and Eugene can sense the bad memories teeming just below the surface. He daren’t scratch it, not today, not with Merriell’s apology hanging in the air between them, so far unacknowledged. Merriell does’t seem able to ignore that fact either, shifting uncomfortably as he flicks his eyes up to Eugene’s face, something uncharacteristically reserved in them.

“I forgive you.” Eugene says, nudging his knuckle to the bony shape of Merriell’s knee through his sweats. “Even if it ain’t gonna be somethin’ I’ll forget for a while.” Something close to bravery is welling up in his chest, climbing higher and higher as Merriell’s eyes catch on him again, and he blurts, “I like you too much to fuck it up by holdin’ out on a grudge that I don’t really even wanna have.”

Merriell blinks at him. “You like me?” He asks, and it’s so juvenile, so high school, that Eugene can’t help the laugh that bubbles up, slapping a hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep himself from erupting into laughter. Merriell passes a hand over his face a second later, a self-deprecating grin tugging at his mouth as he peeks from between his fingers at Eugene, who is still biting at his lips to keep his laughter in check. “Forget I asked like that.” He mumbles, rolling his eyes as he cringes inward. “Jesus.”

“Yes,” Eugene says, still grinning, laying his hand over Merriell’s knobbly knee as he shifts in his seat until they’re face to face. “Yes I like you. D’you think I would’ve come back here if I didn’t care for you?”

Merriell shrugs, faux coy as he curls his hands under his chin again. Those big green eyes. “Even though I lied to you?”

Eugene snorts. “More like despite that.” Merriell’s smile stretches as his eyes dip, and flick away. It’s such a small, sweet mannerism that Eugene had missed from him that it carves deep down into his chest, a piece of deadly shrapnel that blooms immediately into affection, heavy attraction. “I’ve been dreaming of you.” Eugene murmurs, just to draw Merriell’s attention again. It works, his eyes turning up to fix on Eugene; that same burning green gaze that has been haunting him day and night since he’d stormed out of the shop downstairs. 

“You have?” Merriell murmurs, wonderingly, something self conscious in the way his hands curl over his knees. He raises one, presses it to his cheek as though to cover a blush his skin is too dark to show up. “That’ll be the love potion I fed ya.” He says then, expression turning wickedly playful as Eugene’s jaw drops, and he goes to smack him teasingly but Merriell catches his wrist before it connects with his arm, making Eugene freeze at the touch. 

Twice, Merriell has touched him. Real, honest, skin to skin contact. The first time; sat uncomfortable on the hard floor downstairs, Merriell circling him like Eugene was the prey to the dangerous animal he was, the acrid smell of that cold paste in his nose, the touch pebbling the skin of his arms, his nipples. Eugene had gone home and stroked himself off to the memory of it, to the heat of Merriell’s hand and the way he had so deliberately pressed his finger right along Eugene’s windpipe, down between his clavicles. His fantasy had twisted dizzyingly with the remnants of a dream he had had, and when Merriell’s paste-covered fingers had breached the skin of Eugene’s chest he had spilled all over his belly, sweating and embarrassed and gasping into his pillow. 

And now. Merriell’s fingertips five hot points of pressure to the underside of Eugene’s wrist, and he’s been holding him too long but neither of them pay it any mind. Merriell is so close that Eugene can see the flecks of blue in those green eyes, so close he can smell the chicory on his breath, can smell his warm skin. The music that’s been playing ignored in the background floods into the space their words have left, and Merriell’s hand flexes around Eugene’s wrist, eyes dropping to his mouth for heartbeat, and that instant is all Eugene needs as he takes the plunge and closes the mere inches between them, his hands sliding home in Merriell’s curls as he finally kisses him like he’s been yearning to for months.

“Oh.” Merriell makes the smallest noise of surprise against Eugene’s lips, and it swells that knot of affection in his chest tenfold, urging him to gather Merriell closer, pressing him back against the arm of the loveseat as he kisses him. A beat later, Merriell’s hand creeps up to clutch hold of the front of Eugene’s shirt, the other sliding up to cup his jaw, fingers pressing tender into the hollow behind Eugene’s ear. It sends a spark of pain through him; the ebbing ache of his bad tooth, but not even that is enough to keep him from Merriell.

They break apart to breathe; and then Merriell is nosing at Eugene’s cheek, his ear, kissing at his jaw, teeth catching on his earlobe. Eugene feels all full up from the attention, almost overwhelmed by it. Merriell’s warm palms on his bare skin, creeping under the edge of his shirt, cupping his jaw. The smell of him; incense and sweat and something earthy and warm — it’s intoxicating, and Eugene is racing towards arousal faster than his brain can catch up. It’s everything he has been dreaming of but so much more, and he leans back for a moment, hand tugging on the hem of Merriell’s sweater as he makes deliberate, heated eye contact with him.

“Can I?” He asks, and they’re not going to have sex on Merriell’s cramped little loveseat, or anything close, but Eugene wants skin to skin, he wants, he wants —

Merriell nods, hands coming down to help Eugene tear his sweater over his head, curls a mess as Eugene throws it behind him and presses close once more, hands skating over smooth brown skin. This is what he’s been wanting; Merriell breathless and bare chested so Eugene can nudge between his legs and part his thighs, hands sliding up over his ribs in a move that makes Merriell shiver, head tipped back against the arm of the sofa as he watches Eugene like he’s seeing him for the very first time. 

“Do you wanna know what I’ve been dreaming of?” Eugene asks, and Merriell’s hands slide into his hair, anchoring there as he dips his head to bite at his nipples, a shaky moan parting his lips at the touch. 

“I think I’ve got some clue.” He manages, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he wraps his fingers around Eugene’s wrist once more, drawing his hand from where it’s settled on the narrow dip of Merriell’s waist. Up and up, until Eugene’s palm is pressed flush to Merriell’s bony sternum, flush to the gaping, toothy maw of that maddening tattoo. He presses, just slightly, testing reality for just a second, and he imagines that Merriell’s faint exhale at the pressure is as gratifying as sinking his hand wrist deep would be.

“Did you do it on purpose?” Eugene breathes, Merriell’s heart thudding hard and fast under his palm. He grins, a catlike edge to his smile. 

“Nah.” He murmurs, hand moving from Eugene’s wrist to rest on his nape, urging him forward for another kiss. Eugene goes, hand still braced against Merriell’s chest, and it shouldn’t turn him on as badly as it does when Merriell takes the weight of him, breathless as he adds, “That’s all you, boo.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i know it's a long one, haha, lemme know what you think!
> 
> also please do check out [the art](https://getmean.tumblr.com/post/184787576394/sledgefu-week-supernatural-magic-au-the-early) my very talented partner drew for this fic; snafu's chest tattoo!


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